


You Can Leave Your Hat On

by xsnarksthespot



Series: The Loaded Gun Strip Club [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Domestic Fluff, First Kiss, Gen, I Don't Even Know, I should probably stop torturing Athos, M/M, Resolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-03
Updated: 2014-05-03
Packaged: 2018-01-21 19:09:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1560929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xsnarksthespot/pseuds/xsnarksthespot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Loaded Gun Strip Club: Where Athos tends bar, Aramis dances, and Porthos stands guard. Correction: where Porthos <i>tries</i> to stand guard when he isn't poking fun at Athos or being completely distracted by Aramis.</p><p>
  <i>Porthos didn’t <i>need</i> to look at the stage, but he always did.  If he managed even a little restraint, then he watched out of the corner of his eye instead. Admittedly, that was rare.  He was utterly <i>worthless</i> as security during the four minutes and three seconds of this particular set and he knew it.  Athos could’ve set fire to the entire fucking bar and Porthos wouldn’t even have blinked in his direction.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Can Leave Your Hat On

**Author's Note:**

> I should be working on my fake fight series, but d'Artagnan is being difficult and this stupid fic has been floating around in my head ever since someone put a prompt along these lines on Tumblr. Basically, this was supposed to be quick dumb fun, but it turned into 4000 words of domestic idiots being domestic. With a hint of OT3. IDEK. I give up trying to pretend I have control over my life anymore.

Porthos stood near the stage, shoulders squared to seem as big and intimidating as he could. As he _was_ , when he needed to be. Unfortunately, there hadn’t been much of a need for it in days and frankly, he was bored out of his skull.

A punter shouted something near the front of the stage. It was supposed to be suggestive, but it just sounded like a slurred mess. Apparently, Athos had been liberal with the liquor again. _Better to loosen wallets, Porthos_ , he’d say, because it wasn’t _his_ top shelf and God knows Louis was too much of a twelve year old in a fancy suit to notice his bartender was slowly bleeding him dry. But then, maybe his inheritance didn’t even feel a dent. He’d only opened the Loaded Gun to stick it to his crazy old bat of a mum, anyway.

The music faded out and the dancer on stage sauntered off. Porthos kept an eye on him, and the punters around the stage, until he was behind the curtain. Sadly, no one did anything stupid. Boredom sank back into his skin and he crossed his arms over his chest, glancing towards the bar while the room waited for the next dancer to come out.

Athos was listening to a woman half-shout over the music that played in between sets. Or at least, he was doing a half-arsed job of pretending he was listening. She giggled loudly and he forced a tight smile, sending a subtle glance across the club. Porthos, in a show of employee solidarity, flashed a broad smile and flapped his eyebrows. Athos rolled his eyes and refilled the woman’s drink.

Telltale pools of golden light scattered into place across the surface of the stage as the music faded out, mid-song.

Porthos tensed. He tried not to, for fuck’s sake. Tried to keep his face schooled and his posture somewhere between formidable and relaxed, but he knew which dancer was up before the music even kicked in, just because of those stupid lights. He’d seen this set a dozen times, _at least_ , but his pulse still stuttered and raced the fuck away as Michael Grimm’s version of “You Can Leave Your Hat On” started playing.

He didn’t need to look directly at the stage to know the dancer was wearing dark grey pinstripe trousers and a matching fedora pulled low over the thick waves of his hair. He also knew there was a white dress shirt with its sleeves half-cocked, a blue tie, and black braces under the black suede military jacket that shouldn’t have worked with the rest of the outfit, but somehow did anyway. 

Good god did it work.

Porthos didn’t _need_ to look at the stage, but he always did. If he managed even a little restraint, then he watched out of the corner of his eye instead. Admittedly, that was rare. He was utterly _worthless_ as security during the four minutes and three seconds of this particular set and he knew it. Athos could’ve set fire to the entire fucking bar and Porthos wouldn’t even have blinked in his direction.

Murmurs of appreciation turned into whistles and shouts as Aramis strutted and swayed, slipping out of each item of clothing with smooth grace. He worked his hat into the dance and delivered a dangerous smile to each person near the stage at some point or another. It was the kind of smile that made you forget you saw him give it to the woman three seats over already, and the bloke across the way a few seconds before that. It was just for you and no one else. 

And damn if people didn’t eat it up night after night, pulling money out like they’d hand over their car keys if he’d only aim that smirk at them one more time.

Porthos couldn’t blame them. He’d have done it himself if he weren’t on duty and he hadn’t made a promise to himself not to come in on his nights off. He was saving money to get out of his piss poor excuse for a flat, not to stuff it down the pants of a friend, no matter how annoyingly attractive said friend might have been.

“... _Porthos_.” Athos was suddenly standing next to him sounding fondly exasperated, like he’d been there for awhile. How many times he’d said Porthos’ name was anyone’s guess. 

“Oi, _christ_ \--you shouldn’t sneak up on a bloke like that,” Porthos grumbled petulantly, having the grace to look slightly embarrassed as he snapped to attention. His focus was clearly still torn between the friend at his side and the brunette on the stage, but he managed to shift a squint to Athos. “What?”

“Treville needs you. Something about a drunk girlfriend making a scene…” Athos gestured towards the door nearby that lead directly to the dressing room backstage. Sighing, Porthos spared one last hooded glance for Aramis, who was down to just braces, trousers and his hat. The tanned angles of his shoulders and torso were lit up in flattering golden light. 

Athos lifted an eyebrow knowingly.

“Shut up,” Porthos grunted, when he finally spotted the look being levelled at him. “Keep an eye on hi--things. Keep an eye on _things_...out here.”

Athos raised his other eyebrow to match the first and slowly blinked. How he could judge with only his fucking _eyelashes_ was beyond comprehension. 

Flashing a half-hearted snarl, Porthos headed backstage.

\-----

“Why are we friends again…?”

“Because I give you free booze and you don’t ask stupid questions.,” Athos replied stoically. He took the last box of whiskey out of Porthos’ hands and set it down with the dozen others lined up behind the bar for restocking. 

“Well...until _now_ ,” he added pointedly.

Porthos laughed and settled down onto a stool. It was coming down in buckets outside. Like the skies over Paris had been holding back a drunken piss for ages and every boom of thunder was really a sigh of relief. Athos had asked Porthos to help clean up and restock the bar since they both had the night off. He didn’t really need the help. But this was Athos’ way of asking for company and Porthos could never refuse him that. 

“On _that_ note, can I get a pint? Worked up a mighty thirst over here,” Porthos smirked. A wheezing cough was added for good measure.

“It’s six in the morning.”

“I haven’t been to bed yet, Mum.”

“You carried _three_ boxes.”

“So you’re telling me I should get _three_ pints? Very well, _I accept_!”

Athos took a deep breath through his nose and huffed it out loudly. The irony of him judging anyone’s drinking habits was not lost on either of them and the moment broke with Athos smiling crookedly and Porthos barking a laugh. 

“I’ll just get it myself…” Porthos sighed, stretching over the bar.

“I will cut you. Don’t test me.” Smacking Porthos’ waggling fingers away, Athos snagged a clean glass and filled it with a stout he knew was his friend’s favourite.

“Ooo, are we getting started early?” Aramis smiled, clapping Porthos on the back of the neck as he claimed the stool next to him.

“What you still doin’ ‘ere?” Porthos frowned. He glanced back the way Aramis had come like he expected to discover the soulless prick who’d kept Aramis from his bed this long. “Everythin’ alright?”

“Yes, yes. Everything’s just fine, you giant mother hen,” Aramis smiled fondly, squeezing Porthos’ neck before he shifted to rest his elbow on the bar. He was still wearing the dress shirt part of his costume, but now there were faded, low slung jeans paired with it. The rosary around his neck dangled from the gap in his shirt. ”I stayed to clean up some of the mess from that one-sided row last night, but then I took a break and ended up napping on the sofa for a bit.”

Porthos and Athos both gave him a slightly sympathetic glance, because they knew Aramis didn’t sleep well and hadn’t for years. He was lucky if he got a few hours a night, even if it was on the uncomfortable disaster backstage that they called a sofa.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“You need to go home and sleep in a proper bed,” Athos murmured, lifting an eyebrow insistently.

“And I will,” Aramis lied smoothly. “Right after I have a pint.” He tapped the bar expectantly and aimed his most disarming smile at Athos.

“ _Stop_.” Athos lifted a hand, palm out, but he was already reaching for a glass with his other hand so it ruined the illusion of irritation.

“Care to top me off while you’re at it, _oh kind and noble barkeep_?” Porthos hummed, waving his half full glass.

“You’re both insufferable,” Athos sighed.

\-----

They’d definitely lingered too long.

It was after eight. Dancers would be trickling in soon enough to practice new sets and work on costumes and lighting decisions during their down time. Constance would box their ears if she found them drinking for free when she came in to do payroll. 

Porthos tried to stifle a yawn, but it came out strangled anyway.

“My thoughts exactly,” Athos droned as he pulled on his coat and peered out one of the small glass windows set into the double doors leading out to the street. The rain only seemed worse now that they were going to have to trudge through it with bellies full of beer and bar snacks. “Hm. Maybe we can swim home.”

“Of all the nights to forget my coat,” Aramis mumbled.

With another yawn, louder this time, Porthos slipped off the coat he’d only just wrangled himself into and dropped it onto Aramis’ shoulders. Aramis sputtered wordlessly, shooting him a _don’t be ridiculous_ look.

“I’ve got two layers without it, and body heat to spare,” Porthos growled warmly. “Just shut up and take the bloody thing.”

Aramis stared at Porthos with a look in his eyes that was far too heavy for the moment, but then it was gone and he slipped his arms into the coat sleeves. Porthos couldn’t be sure, between the fatigue and the booze and maybe his own wishful thinking, but he thought he saw Aramis press his nose into the uplifted collar for a second.

“Gentlemen…” Athos murmured, by way of warning, just before he shoved the doors open.

\-----

They ended up at Porthos’ flat, despite his protests. Athos had whispered a reminder that Aramis slept better when one of them was nearby and his place was a good deal further away. (“We’ll have to ride the Métro and you know how he is on the M--” “Okay, fine, _enough_.”) 

Now it was hours later and he wasn’t thinking so much about how small the studio apartment was or how he really wished he’d cleaned up a bit before going into work the night before. No, _now_ , Porthos was trying to remember how the hell he’d gotten sandwiched into a bed between two men in borrowed pyjama bottoms. 

Usually when they crashed here, Athos would pass out while they were watching some ridiculous movie and Porthos would nudge Aramis off to the bed while he straightened Athos out along the sofa and covered him with a blanket. Sometimes he’d turn the tv around to face the bed and Aramis would drift off, his head resting against Porthos’ shoulder. Every once in a while, Aramis was so desperate for _real_ sleep, he’d drop down into the bed on his belly the second they walked in, a contented sigh the only thing out of his mouth before his breathing slipped towards the rhythmic in-out of deep sleep. 

But today was different. They’d all stripped down in the kitchen, an ever-widening puddle of water at their feet. Porthos remembered that part, because he’d scrambled for something clean and dry for them to sleep in and apologised unnecessarily for the lack of a dryer in the flat. Athos had waved a hand dismissively and accepted a towel to get the worst of the dampness out of his hair. Aramis had yawned and mumbled something about being perfectly content to lay around naked as the day he was born until their clothes dried the old-fashioned way.

Athos had given him a _look_ then and Porthos had searched twice as hard for clean pyjamas. 

But everything in between that and waking up to Aramis spooning up against him in a tangle of arms and legs, and Athos’ face burrowed against the back of his neck, was a sleep-deprived, beer-fuzzy blur. 

They were taking advantage of the only working “furnace” in the flat, no doubt. But now his skin felt overheated in a completely different way. 

Porthos shifted slightly, trying to figure out exactly how trapped he was. Unfortunately, even that slight movement caused enough friction against his _unfairly_ awake cock that he quietly hissed in a breath.

This was ten levels of bad news. He needed to escape, as quickly and stealthily as possible. Thankfully, Athos slept like the dead. Aramis, on the other hand, slept lightly and was pressed flush into the curve of his body. 

Porthos thought about climbing out over Athos. He probably wouldn’t even budge. But that plan would require even more effort, so he mentally sighed and simply rolled over the top of Aramis with his arms and knees strategically placed to keep him as far out of contact as possible. It might’ve even worked, if his bed had been a little larger and his hand hadn’t slipped off the edge.

“Oof,” Aramis huffed as he suddenly had the full weight of Porthos’ body land awkwardly on his side. “Jesus, what the…” he sleepily mumbled, eyes blinking open with some struggle. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Porthos whispered. There was a flustered laugh at the edges of his apology, but he quickly regained his grip on the side of the bed and lifted up off of his friend. 

Aramis rolled to his back beneath him, eyebrows lifting crookedly in amusement. “You could’ve just asked me to let you out instead of assaulting me in my sleep.”

“Fuck off, I was tryin’ not to wake you!” Porthos laughed.

“And doing a rather poor job of it, I’d say.”

“Right. Next time I’ll just jab a knee in your arse and shove you off the bed.”

“You would never be so cruel.” Aramis’ smile was sluggish, but the look in his eyes was piercing. He glanced at Athos, seemingly to make sure their hushed conversation hadn’t woken him, and then let his gaze drift back over Porthos’ hovering body. “Are you staying then?” His gaze was still decidedly south of Porthos’ face.

Porthos’ answer was a strangled sound that only vaguely resembled the ‘no’ it was intended to be, so he cleared his throat and tried again. “Just give me a bloody second, will you?” A hasty scramble later and he was on his feet and headed for the bathroom.

\-----

It was a damn good thing that the simple act of brushing his teeth was easing Porthos’ body back into a neutral state, because he really needed to take a piss sometime today. Preferably without decorating the ceiling. 

Course, he might as well have announced into the other room that he was trying _not_ to think about a half-naked Aramis beneath him since the man in question only waited a couple of minutes before slipping into the tiny room to use the toilet himself. Porthos rolled his eyes to the ceiling for a long moment before spitting into the sink and rinsing his mouth.

“You have to work tonight?” he asked, mostly to keep himself distracted as he tucked his toothbrush into a cup and smoothed a hand over his jaw.

“I’m scheduled to, yes.” Aramis elbowed his way into a spot next to Porthos and washed his hands. “But I think that I may be…” He faked a pathetic little cough. “...Coming down with something.”

Porthos snorted. “Better work up a better one than that before you call Treville.”

Flashing an impish grin, Aramis snagged Porthos’ toothbrush and quickly put toothpaste on the bristles. He was already popping it into his mouth by the time Porthos glanced over at him and spat out the beginnings of a complaint.

“Oi, Aramis, I--”

“Wha?” Aramis mumbled around the toothbrush in his mouth.

Porthos sighed and gestured up to the tiny shelf above the toilet, where two toothbrushes sat in a cup, still in their packaging. Looking only slightly apologetic for a second, Aramis shrugged and gave him a lopsided smile.

“Mmhmm.” Porthos smirked and reached around Aramis for his beard trimmer. They’d done this dance a hundred times and yet he still felt painfully aware of how _bloody small_ the room was. He needed to find the man a shirt. As it was, his too big pyjama bottoms were riding low on Aramis’ hips and it was near impossible for Porthos to keep his gaze locked on his own dumb face in the mirror.

Leaning a hip against the sink, Aramis paused long enough to point the toothbrush at Porthos. “Whatever happened to Alice? I was sure you liked that one quite a bit.”

“Huh? ...Oh. She found out where I worked,” Porthos grumbled after a look of surprise passed over his face. Aramis lifted his eyebrows in an unspoken question. “It made ‘er uncomfortable.” There was more to it than that, but Porthos hoped the furrow between his eyebrows was an obvious enough request to leave it alone.

Aramis mustered up a sad little smile and fell silent for a minute. Eventually, he countered it with a friendly clap on the shoulder before he rinsed his mouth out and changed the subject. “Right, then. Mind if I use your shower?” 

Porthos swallowed dryly and turned his too-wide eyes back to his reflection. “Not as long as you give me a minute to finish up here.”

“Because your innocent eyes have never seen me without my clothes on before?” 

Before Porthos could force a snarky comeback out of his gaping mouth, Aramis abruptly squeezed between Porthos and the sink, half-sitting on the porcelain bowl. “Would you be more willing if I still had my hat on?” He punctuated the question by tilting an imaginary brim over his forehead, a knowing smirk lazily prancing across his lips.

Porthos forced himself to finish the last swipe with his beard trimmer and set it aside before he levelled a ‘ _you really wanna go there_ ’ stare at Aramis. Unfortunately, that just seemed to stoke the fire.

“No? Maybe you need the hat _and_ the song, hm?” The words were all tease, but Aramis’ expression had taken on a serious edge. So serious even, that Porthos couldn’t keep the worried frown from descending between his eyebrows. 

“Where are you goin’ with this, Aramis?” Porthos whispered.

“I suppose that depends on you, my friend,” Aramis shrugged with deceptive nonchalance. “ _Personally_ , I was hoping to squeeze us both into that tiny shower of yours, but I’d be just as happy to skip to the part where I end up on my knees.” 

Porthos hissed a breath in between his teeth and closed his eyes. It was mildly embarrassing how just one sentence threatened to make him achingly hard all over again. 

After a beat, a tense laugh tumbled from his mouth. “Bloody hell.”

“If neither of those options appeal to you...I am more than willing to discuss alternatives,” Aramis hummed. 

There was a second of hesitation, a silent moment that mainly consisted of Porthos’ conscience telling him this was A Bad Idea - not for the first time, hell not even for the hundredth time - and the rest of him _ignoring his conscience completely_.

Reaching around Aramis to grip the sink’s edge with both hands, Porthos ducked his head and notched his nose to the side of Aramis’. His mouth hovered just shy of contact as he lowered his voice to a rumbling murmur. “Not exactly a line we can uncross, Aramis. Might want to think it over…”

“That would be rather redundant, Porthos.” The words were a quiet breath shared between their lips. “Seeing as the thought has rarely been far from my mind all these years.”

Porthos made a small, hungry sound and pressed in against the full length of him. He tried to keep that first kiss tame, he really did. He wanted to ease into this, to _savour_ it, because there was that tiny voice in the back of his mind panicking at the thought that this could bring his whole world crashing down. 

But Aramis made a noise in the back of his throat that steamrolled through him and all that was left behind was overwhelming need. 

There was a chaotic moment, there, as they both let go. As they were reduced to nothing but lips, tongues and teeth, hands and skin. Aramis hooked his fingers around Porthos’ neck, short blunt nails digging into flesh. Porthos bent at the knees, slipping his hands under Aramis’ thighs to lift him up and ram him against the nearby door. It rattled in its hinges, but he couldn’t be bothered to care. Not when the long path of Aramis’ neck was exposed as he arched under that punishing thrust. And certainly not when Aramis was grinding out encouraging curses in two languages and wrapping his legs around Porthos’ waist.

Abruptly, Porthos downshifted into achingly tender. His arms wrapped around Aramis, rough palms gently sliding up between the man’s back and the door, and he trailed his mouth up Aramis’ neck with barely there brushes of his lips and tongue. His breathing was a ragged echo bouncing off the walls of the small room, but he took his time finding his way back to Aramis’ mouth, anyway. Aramis responded to the shift in tempo with a shuddering exhale and his arms looped around Porthos’ head, hands slowly threading into his curls.

“I had a feeling...you’d be as volatile in this as you are in everything else,” Aramis whispered against his temple. Thunderstruck by the fondness trapped in those words, and by the wave of emotion that threatened to undo him completely, Porthos pressed his mouth against the pulse in Aramis’ throat and stayed there until Aramis started to stir impatiently against him.

Lifting his head, Porthos flashed a mischievous grin and rolled his hips. Aramis hissed. Amusement and lust swirled through his eyes as he jerked Porthos’ mouth back to his. Porthos growled approvingly and drove him against the wood with a rough thrust.

A startlingly loud thump reverberated off the door from the other side. Most likely a boot thrown with grumpy accuracy.

Porthos pulled his head back sharply, a breathless laugh on the tip of his tongue.

“Apparently, Sleeping Beauty is awake,” Aramis smirked.

“And not particularly pleased about how he got there,” Porthos grinned.

“Story of his life, really,” Aramis sighed. With obvious reluctance, he lowered his legs to the ground, a disgruntled pout starting to curl the edges of his mouth. After only the slightest of pauses, Porthos tucked his fingers inside the waistline of Aramis’ borrowed pyjamas and stepped backwards.

“We really do need a shower, though,” Porthos shrugged with a barely concealed smile. “And hot water is a bit of a problem around ‘ere. Technically, we’d be doin’ him a favour if we shared.”

“Ah, yes,” Aramis laughed quietly as he allowed himself to be tugged towards the shower. “That _would_ be very thoughtful of us. He couldn’t even really complain.”

They both froze at that hilarious impossibility and then burst into muffled laughter. Oh, he’d complain. Or at the very least glare daggers at them both over breakfast. But as Porthos reached to turn on the shower and Aramis slid eager hands down his stomach...well, he figured it was a small price to pay. 

And one he’d pay _gladly_ , at that.


End file.
